


Tether

by weeping00willow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Canon Era, Castration, Come Marking, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Torture, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Jon, Rimming, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeping00willow/pseuds/weeping00willow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A not so quiet night between the Lord Commander and his new prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tether

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: Theon and Sansa arrive together at the Wall after they escape from Winterfell, where they are taken in by Jon, the new Lord Commander, recently resurrected after the attempt on his life. Theon is still a traitor, though, so he is kept prisoner until Jon finally decides his fate. But things become a little more complicated once the full scope of the damage suffered by Theon at the hands of Ramsay Bolton is revealed.

He is standing in front of the small table in the corner, naked from the waist up and running a wet cloth across his chest. The flickering light of the candle makes him look sallow and gaunt, a collection of bones huddled inside skin too seasoned and too tight. Even from this relative distance Jon can see the long scars crisscrossing his back, some still healing, others merely white furled lines cutting through the pale skin. His shoulders are hunched and his mop of hair hangs in unruly tresses over his nape, as if he has forgotten that hair needs to be brushed, or has had the instinct beaten out of him.

This is not the Theon Greyjoy whom he grew up with, the arrogant prick who used to strut around Winterfell in his expensive kraken-embroidered tunics, sneering at Jon and calling him 'bastard' with all the superiority afforded to him by his noble birth, making Jon seethe with anger and frustration and hurt. This broken shell of a creature has been stripped of every last trace of pride and self-worth, and not for the first time, Jon feels an urge to rearrange the pieces to his own liking, to build him anew.

He steps quietly inside the prisoner's room, stealth having long since become second nature to him as guardian of the Wall, and even though Theon should be used to this by now, he still jumps to the side when Jon touches his shoulder, nearly upending the bowl of water off the table. 

“Shh, it's only me,” Jon soothes him.

Theon doesn't speak. He remains still under Jon's hand, even though Jon can feel the shivers wracking his frame; he has been trained to obey. 

Jon takes the wet cloth out of Theon's hand, dips it again into the water and starts scrubbing slowly over the other man's shoulders. A few drops of water slide across his back, over the dips and whorls of his scars, to be soaked up by the waistband of his ratty trousers. Jon follows them with the cloth, mapping the new geography of the body beneath his hands, learning it, making himself the owner of every imperfection, relishing the unsteady breaths and the ceaseless shivers of the object of his scrutiny. Theon cannot help but flinch every time he scrubs over his newer scars; they are still painful, both in body and mind. But Jon never falters, he keeps up his ritual of wipe, rinse, repeat, going over every inch of the man's back, along his wiry arms, inside the pits of his arms, until the white skin glistens like silver in the faint light. 

Then he turns him around and resumes the cleansing on his front side. Even though Theon had been already washing that part before Jon came in, he cannot be trusted to do it properly, what with the way he tends to get trapped inside of his own head, oftentimes while performing the simplest tasks, and then proceeding to stare blankly at the wall for hours on end. 

Theon is clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes tight, as if he were being caressed with nettles rather than water and soap.

"Open your eyes," Jon orders, and Theon obeys. Pale blue shimmering with fear and never forgotten pain lock onto his own dark brown. He doesn't dare close them again, he fixes Jon with his creepily intense stare while he keeps washing his emaciated chest, his belly, the throat that Theon bares with a nervous gulp, even the planes of his weathered face.

When every inch of skin has been scrubbed to Jon's satisfaction, pimpling with goosebumps from the cold, Jon turns him back towards the table and moves the bowl of water to the floor, out of the way.

With one hand on his prisoner's nape, he gently but firmly bends him over the table. Theon whimpers as his chest touches the cold wood, but makes no attempt to move away. 

Unwilling to waste anymore time, Jon's other hand fumbles with the fastening of the other man's trousers until the cloth gives way and slides to the floor over bony hips. He bends down to undo the laces on Theon's boots, and soon he discards them to the side, along with the trousers, leaving the other man completely bare beneath his gaze.

He takes the wet cloth in his hand and starts cleaning him from the bottom to the top. He lifts each leg and scrubs the rag carefully over the soles of Theon's feet, between his toes, tracing the healed crater where not long ago his torturer had jammed a spike all the way through to the other side of his foot. Even now Theon walks with a limp because of it, tendons never having been given a chance to realign properly.

He washes his calves, making the sparse hair on them cling to the skin. Jon likes the way the dirty blonde strands curl and darken when wet, so he combs them through his fingers repeatedly, feeling his chest tighten with every noise and flinch wrung out of the prostrate man before him. But soon, he shakes himself from his reverie and moves up to his prisoner's thighs.

The muscle is wiry and taut, burnt out by months of malnutrition and from sleeping crouched in a dog cage every night. When Jon's hand grazes his inner thigh, Theon suddenly jerks in fright and his legs clamp tightly together, trapping his wrist like a vice.

Jon sits up from his crouch with a frown, only to discover the other man shaking upon the table, nails dug into the wooden surface and his ribcage shuddering with uneven breaths. Jon's free hand tangles itself in the man's hair, turning his head to the side. Theon's eyes are squeezed painfully shut and his cheeks are blotchy and wet with tears.

Jon bends his body over his captive's back, belt buckles scraping the naked flesh as he lowers his mouth to the other man's ear to whisper "Open your eyes", over and over again. When it seems that Theon is too far gone in his head to comprehend his order, Jon fists his hair and yanks hard, making his prisoner gasp and open his eyes on reflex. 

"Look at me," he growls under his breath, and when those terrified pinpricks of pupil fix on him, Jon keeps his head pressed to the wood and licks a broad stripe over his right cheek, tasting his tears.

"Breathe," he instructs again, and when he licks a second time, over the half-moon scar under his eye, Theon lets out a shuddering breath and goes limp under him. 

"That's good, Theon," Jon praises him. "Now keep your eyes on me and spread your legs."

Theon's body gives another futile jerk at that, but Jon's fingers tighten in his hair once again and he laves his tongue some more, over the man's cheekbone, his temple, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth, bathing him in spit and swallowing the heady taste of his skin and tears.

When he tries to move his wrist again, Theon reluctantly parts his legs for him, lets him slide upwards to where he is warm and soft, where he has been vulnerable and hurt before.

Jon rewards him by nibbling softly on his ear. "Good boy," he breathes into the cartilage between his teeth, and Theon shudders again, but this time from a completely different reason. 

Jon continues to lick over the whorls and valleys of his ear as he moves the cloth rhythmically between his legs, and all the while Theon watches him obediently from the corner of his eye, breath huffing in warm pants over the surface of the table.

When Theon starts to push his buttocks back to meet his touch, Jon deems it safe enough to slide back to his knees behind him and rinse the cloth again. With gentle hands, he coaxes the man's thighs further to the side and Theon lets him, arches his back with a sigh.

Heart pounding in his ears, Jon runs his fingers over the pert backside that is now his to explore. There are scars marring this piece of flesh too, vestiges of a heated fire poker branded into the delicate skin in uneven lines all the way down to his thighs, and the cheeks have barely enough flesh on them to cover the bone underneath. It is still with bated breath that Jon flattens his palms on each globe and pulls them slowly apart to reveal the tight pucker between. An inch below his perineum is where the jagged scar begins, all that is left of the sack that once hung there proudly. John had cut the stitches out with his own dagger a week ago, and soothed the tender skin with healing salve, because he would not trust another hand upon his prisoner except his own.

Now his stomach roils with anger and desperate want as he retrieves the cloth and runs it along the valley of Theon's ass, over the scar between his legs all the way to the small stump at the front. He slides the cotton rag over every nook and cranny dutifully, no cock or balls to impede his path, while Theon keeps letting out these breathy punched out noises above him that make Jon's pants tighten almost to the point of blinding pain.

There are little hairs scattered around Theon's hole too, like rays branching out from a dark sun, and the tiny entrance puckers and loosens with every swipe of the cloth. It would take a stronger man than Jon to resist this maddening dance of temptation, so once his thorough cleansing is done, he buries his face between those fleshy globes and attacks the wrinkled skin there with ruthless hunger. Theon squeaks above him and his knees suddenly give out, squirming listlessly over the edge of the table as Jon licks, kisses and nibbles at his hole like a starved man.

Jon wraps his arms around Theon's thighs and keeps them spread, running his hands frantically over every inch of skin he can find, from hipbones to toes.

When Theon's whimpers begin to edge into desperate moans, Jon finally finds it in himself to scramble to his feet and half-walk, half-drag his incoherent prisoner to the bed at the opposite corner of the room.

Theon stumbles and lands on his back on the narrow cot and Jon pauses for a second to take him in. His prisoner stares up at him, unblinking, body frozen as if in anticipation of a predator's strike, a red flush spreading from his cheeks, over his neck and halfway down his chest, which trembles with uneven breath. He is thin and pale against the off-white sheets, broken and scarred inside and out, and he is the most beautiful thing Jon has ever seen.

Not taking his eyes off him, Jon quickly divests himself of his clothes and retrieves the small bottle of oil he had hidden in one of his pockets, enjoying the way Theon's eyes zero in on his painfully erect cock with an odd mixture of envy, reluctance and want.

Theon is leaning half crouched on the bed, knobby legs folded together to hide his mutilated lower half as Jon crawls slowly towards him. He wraps his hands around his ankles and tries to push them apart, but the other man is clearly uncomfortable enough to put up a fight once again. 

"Open up for me, Theon," Jon tells him, running his palms soothingly over his calves, his knees. "I want to see you."

With a deep breath, and red in the face from embarassment, Theon gradually loosens his tense joints and allows Jon to spread his legs and pull him lower on the bed for easier access. 

The black patch of hair between Theon's legs looks oddly virginal under Jon's gaze. Only a half-inch stump remains of his severed cock, nestled among the curls like a small animal, fragile and helpless. Jon reaches out his index finger to touch the scarred lump and finds it damp and slippery at the tip from the man's previous excitement. Theon lets out a moan and covers his face with his arm.

"Don't hide your face," Jon orders him. "I want you to look at me as I make you mine."

Breath growing ragged at the words, Theon lets his arm drop reluctantly to the side and looks into Jon's eyes, jaw clenched under the strain of keeping still. His whole body trembles as Jon circles the pad of his finger around the moisture down there, then brings his hand up to suck the finger into his mouth and taste the clear liquid on his tongue. 

Theon's eyes bug out when Jon manhandles his legs as far apart as they will go, exposing him completely, then lowers his head to kiss a wet path along his inner thigh, pausing to suck at the taut tendon where thigh meets groin. The fingers of his left hand keep drawing nonsensical patterns over the skin of his torso, tracing the lines of his scars, circling ruefully over the place where his right nipple used to be. All the while, Jon keeps looking into his prisoner's eyes, noticing the involuntary tears that begin to spill forth at the gentleness of his touch.

Jon burrows his face into the dark patch of hair and nuzzles the skin there, filling his lungs with the other man's musky scent. When he finally closes his lips around the little stump, Theon falls back onto the pillow with a moan, eyes rolling to the back of his head, hands clawing helplessly at the sheets.

Jon takes his time laving his tongue over the lump of flesh, kissing around it, swallowing the precome that leaks out of the tiny hole at the top, while his other hand opens up the bottle of oil and smears it over his palm. His slippery index finger finds Theon's entrance and rubs soothing circles around it a few times before it dips inside, then out, then inside again, going further as the tight channel yields to him, gauging Theon's discomfort by the helpless sounds punched out of him with every jab, every lick.

Soon he manages to squeeze a second finger past the ring of muscle and begins to prod at the front wall of Theon's insides, searching for his prize. He knows he has found it when Theon's back arches suddenly off the bed with a shout, so Jon keeps prodding it, alternates with stretching slides until he can fit a third finger alongside the other two.

When he deems the hole open enough to receive him, Jon slowly climbs on top of the other man, leaving a trail of wet kisses from his groin all the way up to his neck, fingers still playing inside.

Theon whines low in his throat when he finally pulls them out and settles over of his prisoner's wriggling form.

Their faces are only an inch apart, and Theon's eyes are squeezed tight and damp above his flushed cheeks. Jon kisses both eyes as he runs his fingers gently through the man's hair.

"Let me see you," he whispers, peppering wet kisses all over his face.

Wet lashes part obediently for him and Jon loses himself for a moment in those watery depths, pale blue tinged almost grey in the candle light, as if he carries the storms and the clouds of his homeland within him.

Without blinking, Theon raises up one arm from where it had been clutching at the sheets and touches Jon's cheek for the first time tonight out of his own initiative. Goosebumps raise over the skin of Jon's back as those fingers slowly trail across the plains of his face, the length of his nose, the bow of his lips, before they push a strand of hair behind his ear and settle on his nape, pulling him forward.

Jon finally closes the distance between them and drowns himself in Theon's lips. They kiss slowly, languidly, like the tide, and Theon's arms encircle his shoulders just as his legs come up to wrap around his hips in a tight embrace. They are pressed together skin to skin, breathing each other's air, tongues sliding wetly in a passionate dance, circling, nipping, sharing the taste of each other's spit, but Jon needs to close the last remaining distance between them, needs it more than he needs air in his lungs.

Pulling back slightly to catch his breath, Jon slips a hand between them to position his cock and starts pushing forward. Theon's brows scrunch up in pain, but his eyes keep boring into Jon's with fierce determination, arms and legs tightening around him even more to pull him in.

When the head finally pops in, Jon has to pause and grit his teeth from the heat and pressure around his neglected cock. He attacks Theon's mouth again and waits for the other man to adjust, then slowly pushes further into his depths, sinking within that overwhelming heat inch by torturous inch.

His entire body is trembling from the effort of keeping still, taking it slow, because he doesn't want to cause his lover pain, but Jon has been waiting so long for this, he has been driven almost out of his mind with lust. He needs nothing more than the assent he can read on Theon's face before he starts thrusting, tentatively at first, then gradually picking up the pace.

They cling to one another with arms and nails and teeth, their combined sweat making their grasp slippery, where Theon digs his fingers hard into the muscles of his broad back, leaving bloodied scrapes that only heighten Jon's desire. 

He adjusts his stance and pounds into the body beneath him like an animal, punching the other man's prostate from the inside, beating his pleasure out of him in shouts and incoherent pleas, choked off 'yesses' and bitten off 'Jons' sweeter than any prayer pouring out of his mouth. Sweat is dripping down Jon's face to land on Theon's parched lips, and the other man licks it off like the sweetest nectar, opens his mouth to beg for more. 

As he gets closer to his peak, Jon fumbles blindly with the bottle of oil and spills it over his hand. He sits up on his haunches and props Theon's legs above his thighs, never breaking his rhythm, then he lowers his soaked palm between those obscenely splayed legs, because he knows what his lover needs to reach his pleasure, he knows he has to work harder at it for him.

He grinds the heel of his palm into the severed stump of his cock, while his fingers rub at the sensitive scar between his legs. Theon howls and throws his head back, stretching his hands above his head to push against the wall and meet Jon's thrusts as they batter his prostate with unrelenting force. And just when the pleasure reaches unbearable heights, Jon digs his fingertips hard into the other man's perineum, right at the root of his cock, and jabs his prostate one last time. Theon comes suddenly, violently, screaming Jon's name while his entire body twists in a graceful arch above the bed. It seems to go on forever, his inner muscles clenching around Jon like a vice as he fucks him through it, clear liquid spurting out of his stump in sticky globs that cling to his pubic hair and ooze over the wiry muscle of his abdomen. 

Frantically, Jon pulls out and braces himself above the panting man, rubbing his cock once, twice, until he spurts his own release in white ropes over his scarred chest.

Utterly spent, Jon collapses half on top of his momentarily passed out lover, rubbing the come into his skin with his left hand, spreading his ownership over the scarred terrain of his belly and chest. When those blue eyes finally blink up at him again, Jon leans his head forward and kisses him, long and deep.

"You are mine," he tells him, voice ragged and wrecked by his own pleasure. "And I will never let you go."

At that, Theon rolls over and wraps himself around him, skinny limbs clinging to him with more force than they ought to as he kisses the breath right out of Jon's lungs. And Jon clings to him even tighter in return.

Later, after the candles have burnt out and the lovers have burrowed together under the furs to stave off the cold, Theon lies awake with his head pillowed over Jon's heart, listening to the life flowing through his chest. He runs the pads of his crooked fingers over the healed stab wounds decorating the sleeping man's chest, and knows it down to his bones that he will never love another as completely as he does this impossible man.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor is this work intended for profit, just for guilty self-indulgent fun.


End file.
